Chapter one

(Celeste Moretti’s POV)

I woke to the steady, mechanical beeping of the hospital monitors and the sharp scent of disinfectant that made my stomach twist. My head throbbed violently, every pulse reminding me of the fall. For a fleeting moment, I tried to place myself, but my mind was a haze until the memory hit me: I had slipped down the stairs. The world spun around me, and suddenly I knew why I was here.

Then the words came, shattering everything. “Signora Moretti, I’m so sorry. We couldn’t save the baby.”

I froze. The sound seemed to come from somewhere far away, as if someone else’s nightmare had invaded my life. I lay still on the hospital bed, numb from more than the anesthesia, trying not to process the weight of what I’d lost. The doctor’s voice droned on about recovery and procedures, but I couldn’t hear it. All I could hear was couldn’t save.

I stared at the white ceiling above me, counting the tiles one by one. One, two, three… anything to keep myself from thinking. My vision blurred. Four, five… were those tears running down my face or was the ceiling actually melting? Six, seven… I blinked hard, forcing the tiles back into focus, but the ache in my chest only deepened.

And then it hit me: Stefano had never truly loved me. Not me. His heart had always belonged to Tiziana, his late brother’s widow, the woman I had thought I could outshine if I only tried hard enough. My chest ached, my stomach knotted, and I realized how stupid I had been, how blindly naive.

Today was supposed to be my first prenatal checkup. I had circled it on the calendar in red three weeks ago and reminded him every single day. Stefano had promised me the night before, his hand brushing mine across the dinner table in a rare gesture that made my heart flutter. I had believed him, like I always did.

I had waited in the hospital lobby that morning, my phone clutched in my shaking hand. Around me, other expectant mothers smiled with anticipation, partners sitting protectively beside them, and I felt a sick envy twist inside me that I hated myself for. I had called Stefano fourteen times, counting each ring, hoping, praying, wishing for him to answer.

By the fourteenth call, hope had drained from me, leaving only dread. And then, chaos erupted in the corridor. I barely had time to react before a gurney barreled toward me, orderlies shouting, rubber wheels screeching. I went down hard, my body hitting the cold tile, the phone sliding out of my hand, still glowing with his unanswered call.

Pain exploded through my abdomen, white-hot and all-consuming, stealing my breath. I tried to scream but only managed a strangled gasp. My hands clutched my stomach instinctively, my vision swimming as the fluorescent lights blurred into halos. Someone shouted for help far away, and I tried to reach my phone, but my arm wouldn’t obey.

Then it lit up. Relief surged—he had finally called back. Maybe he’d realized something was wrong. Maybe he’d finally cared.

But then I heard it. Not Stefano’s voice, not even concern. It was Bianca Conti’s high-pitched, delighted giggle. “Daddy! Mama Tiziana! Look at the snowman!”

I froze, staring at the screen, at the pristine ski slopes behind them, bathed in golden sunlight, laughter cutting through my chest like a knife.

They were in Cervinia.

Building a snowman.

All three of them.

My daughter. My husband. And her.

The betrayal hit me harder than the gurney had. It hollowed me out from the inside, leaving nothing but a gaping wound where my heart used to be.

“What is it, Celeste?” Stefano’s voice cut through the phone, sharp with irritation. I could see his face on the screen—handsome, cold, annoyed at being interrupted. “What’s so urgent?”

I tried to speak. I tried to tell him I was hurt, that I was bleeding, that something was terribly, catastrophically wrong. My lips moved, forming words my voice couldn’t produce. All that came out was a pitiful, broken moan.

Then I heard another voice, soft and feminine, dripping with false sweetness.

“Is that Celeste calling?” Tiziana’s voice was like honey laced with poison. I couldn’t see her face, but I could imagine her perfectly delicate features arranged in an expression of practiced concern, her hand resting on Stefano’s arm in that proprietary way she always did.

“Mom’s so annoying,” Bianca’s voice came through, petulant and dismissive. My own daughter. My flesh and blood. “Daddy, hang up! I want to take a picture with Mama Tiziana!”

Mama Tiziana.

The words stabbed through me like broken glass. My daughter—the child I had carried for nine months, the baby I had nursed through every midnight crying fit, the little girl I had read bedtime stories to every single night—was calling another woman Mama. When had that happened? When had I lost her too?

Stefano didn’t even look at the screen. He was watching Bianca and Tiziana, smiling at them with a warmth he had never shown me. “Whatever it is can wait until I get back,” he said dismissively, making it clear I was nothing more than an inconvenient interruption to his perfect family.

The call ended.

Pain in my abdomen suddenly intensified, becoming unbearable. My vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges. The last thing I saw before unconsciousness claimed me was the phone screen, dark and silent. Then nothing.

“Are you all right, Signora Moretti?” The doctor leaned in, seeing that I didn’t respond.

“I’m fine. I’m okay—please continue speaking,” I murmured, closing my eyes wearily.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he said. “The fall caused a miscarriage. We did everything we could.”

We did everything we could. Standard medical protocol.

I didn’t cry. I physically couldn’t. It was as if all my tears had frozen inside me, turning to ice in my veins. The grief was too big, too overwhelming, to express through something as simple as crying.

The room was empty except for the doctor and a nurse hovering near the door. No family. No husband. No daughter.

I didn’t call my mother. The thought crossed my mind briefly but I dismissed it immediately. I knew exactly what Lavinia would say. She’d find a way to make this my fault. “What did you do wrong, Celeste? Wives don’t lose their husbands’ attention for no reason. You must have failed him somehow. You should have tried harder. Been prettier. More accommodating. Less needy.”

I could hear her voice clearly in my head as if she were standing in the room. Years of criticism had etched themselves into my psyche, a constant voice of doubt and self-blame.

The doctor cleared his throat, pulling me back to the present. “You’ll need significant rest and recovery,” he said, softer now. “I must warn you—another pregnancy may be very difficult after this. The damage to your uterus was… extensive.”

After he left, the tears finally came. They poured out in silent, shaking sobs that wracked my entire body. I pressed my face into the thin hospital pillow, muffling the sounds because even in my darkest moment, I couldn’t allow myself to be too loud, too much, too inconvenient.

This baby had been Bianca’s idea. She had begged for a little brother or sister, her eyes wide and earnest. “Please, Mommy? Please? I promise I’ll help take care of them!” And Stefano had agreed, saying it would “complete the family.”

Complete the family. What a cruel joke that had turned out to be.

I discharged myself three days later. Three days alone in that stark hospital room, the nurses coming only at intervals to check my vitals. No visitors. No flowers. No get-well cards. Just me, the relentless beeping of machines, and white walls.

No one came to pick me up. Of course they didn’t.

I signed the discharge papers alone, my hand shaking slightly as I scrawled my signature. I paid the bills alone, watching my savings dip dangerously low. I called an Uber alone, standing outside the hospital entrance with my small overnight bag, watching happy families pass by.

As I waited for my ride, I made myself a promise. Standing there in the cold January air, my body still aching, my heart still broken, I swore I would never let myself become this pathetic again.

Never again would I wait by the phone for a man who wouldn’t call.

Never again would I believe promises that meant nothing.

Never again would I mistake indifference for love.

The Uber was halfway to the Conti estate when my phone buzzed. A video had been posted to the Conti family W******p group.